


splinter

by aseriesofessays



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: s02e14 The Big Game, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Hypersensitivity, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriesofessays/pseuds/aseriesofessays
Summary: Well, he knows, technically, what to say. When to say it. How to say it, just the right amount of stress on this syllable, just the right tremor here to activate someone’s sympathy response. In a hostage situation you should always look small, head down, shoulders in. Don’t try to act the hero. Some well chosen, well placed words and you’re out, you’re safe, you can go home and read read read until you fall asleep with a headache. Safe. He’s not so good at navigating social situations that aren’t life and death, because those are tricky and have a hundred thousand variables, but his job? He’s good at his job. He can do his job. Give him his mouth and his sight and he can get out of any situation.Or:Statistically speaking, he knows he’s not getting out of here, but statistics (his one goddamn constant) are hard to grasp right now.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	splinter

**Author's Note:**

> yes i am like ten years late also i guess this is an au where reid was held for like. a week rather then like two days because of the fbi is incompetent without him reasons

Spencer has his brain. 

Above all else, he has his brain. He can piss people off with his poor handling of social cues, and he can get himself into a million stupid situations, and he can fuck up and fuck up and fuck up again, but he has his brain and he has his smarts and he has his books. It makes him invincible, in a way, because when he’s stressed out or anxious or scared he can just go home and read. Facts are facts are facts, and statistics are statistics, and he soaks them all up like a sponge because they change but they change mathematically. They change in a way he will always understand, even if he has to work at it a little bit. People, at their base, are a bundle of facts tied up into a messy package, and even when they’re confusing they stick to the basics. 

It’s why he’s in profiling. He may not know how to respond to people but he knows how people will respond, and who, specifically, will respond to what criteria, and- 

Well, he knows, technically, what to say. When to say it. How to say it, just the right amount of stress on this syllable, just the right tremor here to activate someone’s sympathy response. In a hostage situation you should always look small, head down, shoulders in. Don’t try to act the hero. Some well chosen, well placed words and you’re out, you’re safe, you can go home and read read read until you fall asleep with a headache. Safe. He’s not so good at navigating social situations that aren’t life and death, because those are tricky and have a hundred thousand variables, but his job? He’s good at his job. He can do his job. Give him his mouth and his sight and he can get out of any situation. 

Tobias- or Charles, or Raphael, he still can’t quite get them straight just on voice alone- 

Well. He’s gagged. Blindfolded. Tied down to a solid wooden chair with scratchy, splintering ropes, wound again and again tight against his wrists and ankles. He can hear and he can smell but he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t _see_. He’s sick with it, the unknowing, the scratchiness against his wrists that he keeps fucking rubbing at but it won’t go _away_ , it won’t leave him alone, it pulls away all the clinical, desperate gathering of facts in lieu of just needing needing needing this feeling off of him- 

What’s it like? It’s like the bedsheets in a hospital, overstarched and overwashed, and he never knows what’s been on them. It’s like the carpet in a classroom when he’s pushed down. It’s like the five o’ clock shadow that Reid never manages to grow but his dad always had. It makes him sick, makes his skin feel like it’s going to crawl off his body, this continuing inescapable _itch_ , prickle, fucking burn, and he can’t _think_ with it, he can’t _breathe_ with it, and then there’s a shushing sound coming from right overhead and he startles and there’s something hot and cold on his arm, _in_ his arm and-

Oh, it’s good. 

The itching just... vanishes. Or it doesn’t vanish, but it doesn’t matter. He can feel it against his wrists but it doesn’t send nausea racing up and down his spine, and being blindfolded doesn’t really matter that much anymore. He feels as peaceful as when he’s in his apartment with his books, a little bit of a headache, reading glasses tucked away because he’s about to doze off. He knows- he knows. He knows he’s not at home, and he’s not safe, but he feels wonderful, and placid, and. He thinks he might chase this feeling forever, if he could. 

When he surfaces, he knows what’s happened. His muscles are locked tight against the discomfort, and he tries not to move at all, and he needs to think of what happens next. It’s addictive, Dilauded is addictive, and if Tobias- or Charles, or Raphael, _fuck_ \- gave it to him once he might do it again, and- 

Someone grabs his arm, and he _screams_ , muffled by the gag (and christ he sounds pathetic, fucking prissy Spencer crying because they got mud on his books again), and the backhand across the face he receives knocks his blindfold askew and reveals a camera. Pointed right at him. He stills, eyes going round with surprise, and Tobias-Charles-Raphael- he thinks Charles, that’s the father, and this man is gruff and keeps mumbling under his breath calling him a useless _boy_ \- pulls the gag out of his mouth. The shock of it, of slowly working the rigidity from his jaw and blinking against the light- distracts him from his ties for a moment, but when he remembers he shudders, full body. He must look a _mess_ \- self consciously he ducks his head, tries to rub off the tear stains (when did those get there?) with his shoulders, but he hardly gets one side before Charles(?) is fisting a hand in his hair and making him look up at the camera. 

And so it goes. His team is watching him, of course. He has to pick someone to die. He probably won’t be able to get out of this alive. He gets shot up again, again, _again_. He doesn’t get to eat, or drink, and his stomach cramps and twists painfully, and he can’t stop his head from drooping even when it’s yanked up again for the camera. Statistically speaking, he knows he’s not getting out of here, but statistics (his one goddamn constant) are hard to grasp right now. He makes a plan, discards it, makes another. His world is blind and colorful and safe and terrifying and he is going to die soon. He likes Tobias, despite himself, because Tobias is frightened and sick and it’s not his fault, and he pushes Reid’s greasy hair away from his face and rubs his back when he’s sick all over the floor. He wonders when his team is going to get there to save him and then remembers he’s the one who finds people, so- so he should probably find himself, right? Before he dies?

He doesn’t think he wants to die. But everything’s so fuzzy right now. 

They’re in a graveyard. He doesn’t remember how he told his team but they’re here, and he’s standing knee deep in his own grave and his wrists are blessedly free. The feeling of it is so nice he just sits down, gravedirt spongey and comforting under him. A shot rings out- it hurts his head. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe. 

What help was his brain? He feels as though it’s been freeze-dried. Melted apart with a shot of Dilauded and the scratch of rope. Statistically speaking- 

He doesn’t know. 

\--

When he gets home, finally, two tiny jars clinking in his pocket, and gathers up all his favorite books and puts of his softest socks and makes himself a mug of sweet tea, puts everything perfect and just right-

The crook of his arm itches. 

Just a little bit more, to settle him down. 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry everyone but the reid vibes were too much to pass up!! also yes stream of consciousness im sorry i know no other mistress. also i havent slept, also i did not edit, also i shouldve put these disclaimers at the top


End file.
